Breathe
by aileenrose
Summary: When Patrick Jane is kidnapped by the notorious serial killer Red John, the team realizes just how much the consultant means to them--and the lengths they'll go to save him.
1. Chapter 1

Now:

Lisbon was surprised when she entered the CBI office that morning to find that Patrick Jane hadn't arrived yet. He was normally the earliest, for reasons she decided not to speculate on, and yet he wasn't there. The sight of the couch without his long, indolent form on it was just too odd. She went into her office and started on her pile of paperwork—which, surprise, surprise, was a good portion made up of complaints against Jane.

She could say how effective his methods were until she was blue in the face, but it wouldn't change the fact that his methods were as far removed from police work as they could possibly be.

An hour later, the workplace was beginning to spring to life. She looked up to see Rigsby enter, his eyes immediately going to Grace's face. He smiled and mumbled a shy hello. Lisbon smiled and returned to her paperwork.

It was only half an hour later, when she was done and going to check up on the team, that she realized her consultant still wasn't there.

"Has anyone seen Jane?" She asked, irritated. Her three team members looked up, shaking their heads as they, too, looked at Jane's empty couch.

"Heard from him?" She prodded, but was only met with more silence.

"Do you want me to call his cell, boss?" Rigsby asked, reaching down for his phone. She waved her hand.

"I'll do it. Get back to work."

She walked back to her office, shut the door, and brushed her bangs out of her head in frustration. Sure, it was a slow day, but not even Jane and his near-psychic abilities could predict that. She had been planning on giving him a brief talking-too—his obsession with Boscoe and the Red John case was beginning to interfere more than ever in his work—and the only free chance she had, he wasn't there. Typical.

Lisbon pounded in his number manually, even though she knew he was on speed dial. She waited for him to pick up, tapping her finger on the desk.

He didn't answer.

That was unlike Jane, but she pushed away the faint stirring of unease that began in the pit of her stomach. It was possible Jane was sick. Or a tire on his junky car had blown out.

Three hours later, she had pushed Jane to the back of her mind as the workload picked up. It wasn't until lunchtime and Cho poked his head into her office that she remembered.

"Hey, boss, we're going out to pick up something to eat. Do you want anything?"

"No," she said, looking up briefly. "Thanks."

"Did you ever hear from Jane?" He asked, his stoic face creased just a little with concern. Lisbon put her pen down.

"No," she began. "But it's possible…he could be sick."

Cho made a disbelieving face that Lisbon didn't appreciate.

"Jane doesn't get sick, boss."

"Then he's skipping," she said, her voice becoming a bit shrill. Cho wisely ducked his head and dropped the subject. She called Jane again, but there was no answer.

At four o'clock, Minelli called her into his office. His lined face was unnaturally serious as he ushered her in. Lisbon stood awkwardly within the door as he walked with heavy steps to his desk before turning around to face her.

"What's this about, boss?" She said impatiently. He held up a finger.

"I wasn't sure if you wanted to handle this or not, so I'm giving you the benefit of a choice. We can always turn it over to local LEOs if you feel too…emotional."

Lisbon raised an eyebrow.

"Emotional? What are you talking about?"

Minelli sighed. "Police station in Malibu got a call an hour ago. Some lady reported that her neighbor's house had been broken into, or so she thinks. Door was wide open. Police station sent two officers over, found a big mess and the floor smeared with blood."

"…Okay?" Lisbon said. "We've handled the like before. What is it? Theft? Murder? Kidnapping?"

"I don't know," Minelli said. "But once the police found out whose house it was, they called us."

"Whose house is it?"

Minelli looked down at his hands, and then met her eyes. "Jane's."

*


	2. Chapter 2

Once the SUV had pulled into the driveway of Jane's mansion, Lisbon was out the car. She didn't wait for the team as she walked swiftly up to the door, past the small group of police officers standing there and into the house.

The marble-floored foyer looked like a small bomb had gone off. The first few feet into the threshold were bare, pristine—and then the small breakfront blocked all progress, turned over on its side and laying across the hall. Bits of glass littered across the marble, glinting in the afternoon light coming in from the door. A small ceramic dish, half broken, was also on the floor. A key ring and a wallet were next to it, like they had thrown out of the bowl.

And then there was the blood—smeared across the white tile, on the glass shards, one bloody handprint on the wall. The blood became one dull smear on the other side of the overturned table, continuing down the hallway until it suddenly and abruptly stopped. After that, the house was again spotless and untouched, like nothing had happened.

Lisbon turned back to the crime scene, where the rest of the team now stood, surveying it. Grace's face was faintly nauseated, and even Cho looked a little unsettled. Although they had faced much worse carnage in the past, it made it worse knowing the blood might belong to their consultant.

"Risgby," Lisbon said, startling them. "Go talk to the first policemen on the scene. Find out what they have to say. Cho—the lady across the street. Van Pelt—look around. See if anything else is out of place."

"Yes, boss," one of them murmured, and one by one disappeared.

Lisbon pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and crouched down, turning over one bloody shards. The blood was still fresh, not completely dried. She was still studying it, lost in thought, when Rigsby came back.

"Not much to say, boss," he said, as Lisbon stood up quickly. "Scene is exactly as the first responders found it. They've already checked all of the locks on the doors and windows—none were jimmied. And the handprint on the wall belongs to Jane," he continued softly. "Since he's in the employment of CBI, his fingerprints were in the data base, so they were able to do a quick run on it."

"Anything else?" Lisbon said, not looking at him.

"Yeah," Rigsby said, looking down at his notepad. "The ME came half an hour ago when they were still unsure whether a body would be nearby or not. He said the amount of blood present here is representative of a significant injury."

Lisbon didn't have anything to say to that.

"Thoughts, boss?" Rigsby said.

"Yeah," Lisbon answered. "A few. If this blood is Jane's, then it would appear that he was attacked. Except the place wasn't broken into—"

"So he knew the person," Rigsby offered. "Or he doesn't lock his doors. Maybe he was assaulted right when he walked in."

"He didn't know the person," Lisbon said. "I can't imagine anyone that Jane knows that he would entrust a spare key to. And after his wife and child were killed, I can't see how he wouldn't lock up."

Rigsby flinched at her mention of the last murder to happen in the house, but Lisbon paid no attention. She was determined to maintain a professional approach to this.

"So he walks in, and he puts his keys and his wallet down," Lisbon continued, walking over to the shattered bowl. "And then he's attacked. There's a fight, obviously, some sort of struggle, and someone is injured." She stopped, looking at the blood.

"So he could've been hit by a vase," Rigsby said, looking down at the glass fragments.

"No," Lisbon said, following his gaze. "He was dragged over them. Pulled down the hallway—" She walked parallel to the bloody smear. "And then…" She looks at the stop.

Rigsby came up next to her.

"He passes out," he finished. "Stops struggling. Allows the assailant to move the body somehow without leaving anymore traces behind."

"If it was Jane who was defending himself, and got the better," Lisbon said slowly. "He would have called the police. Or us, at least."

She looked around at the kitchen, where the trail of blood ended. It was empty—nothing on the countertops, no table. The room that ajoined, probably a living room, was completely bare as well.

"But if Jane was the one who was attacked…" Rigsby said. "We have to admit, he made a lot of enemies."

Lisbon opened her mouth, but was interrupted by van Pelt's startled screech. Immediately, her hand flew to her gun. With Rigsby close behind her, Lisbon barreled up the stairs, turning sharply at the landing.

"van Pelt?" She said loudly.

"I'm fine," van Pelt said from the end of the hallway, her hand on a door that was partly open. "Nothing's wrong."

Lisbon holstered her weapon with some irritation.

"What's the matter, then?"

"It's old," van Pelt said. "Not left today, at least. It just startled me. I was afraid of what I might see."

"What you might see of what?" Lisbon said, shouldering past her.

Grace didn't have to answer as Lisbon pushed the door open wider.

This room was as bare as all of the others, except for a grungy mattress on the floor.

But that wasn't what Lisbon saw right away.

Directly across from the door, drawing the eye immediately, was a grinning, gruesome smile.

"The blood is old," Grace almost whispered near Lisbon's ear. "I'm pretty sure it's—"

"Red John's mark," Lisbon said, still transfixed with the symbol. "From eight years ago."

*

Part of Patrick Jane's omniscience is his ability to use his senses.

So he knows, without opening his eyes, that he is lying on something flat and soft—not comfortable enough to be his couch, but too cushioned to be his mattress. And that his wrists are encircled by some tight, chafing material (leather, he guesses) that restricts his movement.

He knows that he's somewhere in the woods, maybe near the mountains judging by the distinct whiff of pine he's getting. And the humidity—it must have rained recently, and his hair is sticking uncomfortably to his forehead.

He can hear nothing except the wind, the slight rustle of leaves, and the breaths of the person who has been standing at the right hand of the bedside ever since Patrick Jane woke up. Patrick has counted 273 breaths so far, taken by this person who waits patiently and immobilely for him to wake up.

He can taste the blood in his mouth, and as his brain races along at a frantic pace he remembers the walking into the darkened hall of his house, and tossing his keys away, and—

The person shifts slightly, and Patrick is distracted. He comes back to the present, grimly assessing his situation.

Patrick knows, without opening his eyes, that it is Red John standing over him, holding a knife in one lax hand, with a knowing grin. Smiling because he knows Patrick has been awake for a while, for 273 breaths, and has been too much of a coward to stop feigning sleep and look him in the eyes.

So Patrick Jane opens his eyes.

*


End file.
